


Take Your Time (Coming Home)

by nothingeverlost



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingeverlost/pseuds/nothingeverlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She smiles and it’s bright.  Bright like staring at an eclipse and he’s seen enough to know that he should look away.  He seldom does the things he should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Your Time (Coming Home)

“No. No, no, stopdon’t _do_ that.” She’s hugging him again and it’s wrong but it’s right but it’s _wrong._

“You stay there.” He extracts himself because he’s good at that, getting himself out of things. Even if his timing is usually terrible. 

“No, not stay. Sit. You sit right there.” He points to the raised walkway at the perimeter of the room. She’s sat there often enough. Watching him. She’s always watching.

“One of these days, Doctor, you’re…”

“Your mouth is always moving. Why?” She’s seconds away from walking. The hug was wrong but that would be worse. The TARDIS is too big and quiet when she’s not there. Sometimes it’s too small and tight when she is there.

“I could be getting a pedicure right now. That’s what I was meant to be doing today, instead of running from Jaegerons.” She kicks her feet as if to draw attention to them. They’re small, so much smaller than his own. Deceptively delicate, but he’s seen her run.

“Why? The hugging, it’s always the hugging.” Not just the hugs, though. It’s the touch, her hands on his jacket, her arm linked through his, her head on his shoulder. She touches him. She touches him and he touches her and it’s too much. There’s too many sensations and thoughts and emotions in his head and he can’t compute it all, which is ridiculous because his brain is not small or simple. He can do calculus in his sleep and once rattled off pi to the ten thousandth digit just to see if he could. That was a day and a half he’d never get back, but he’d taken a break for a street fair and pretzels so it hadn’t been a complete loss.

But he can’t figure her out and it’s worse when she’s touching him.

“Because when good things happen people like to celebrate. I like to celebrate.” She’s moving again and he’s not sure if she’s going to come closer or walk backwards. He doesn’t want either.

“Hands right there and there.” He points to the railing, the metal bars that are almost at the same height as her head. When she only blinks at him with those eyes, those large eyes that seem to grow rounder when she’s upset or happy or scared or anything that’s not content or angry he points again. It accomplishes little so he shows her instead of telling her. She lets him.

“Sixty-seven,” he says after a minute passes and she, miraculously, hasn’t said a word. He can feel the questions humming under her shin.

“Sixty-seven what?” She’s watching him but he only stares at her wrist.

“Beats per minute. Your pulse,” he points out. His thumb on her wrist is the only place they’re touching.

“Not bad considering that fleeing for our lives thing we did just a bit ago. Must be getting used to this.” Her dress is purple today, the same color as a scarf he’d once owned. Maybe he still had it around. It looks like a sweater, but it’s longer so maybe it’s not a dress. but she’s not wearing trousers so maybe it is.

“The running is the easy part.” He’s always found standing still to be more of a challenge.

“Only if you’re wearing the right shoes.” She smiles and it’s bright. Bright like staring at an eclipse and he’s seen enough to know that he should look away. He seldom does the things he should.

“Don’t move.” It’s not a command. Or maybe it is, but he’s commanding himself, not her. He’s not going to run this time. His fingers, three of them, move along the inside of her arm. The skin is almost impossibly soft.

Her pulse is seventy-four when he touches his fingers to her neck.

It’s eighty-nine after he brushes his lips against her mouth.

“Doctor?” She’s stopped breathing. Just for a moment, but in that moment her heartbeat and breath are gone and it’s the echo of things to come.

He always loses them in the end.

“Not yet.” His forehead touches hers and he’s not sure how long they stay like that. One single connection point, and maybe it’s not too much. Maybe it’s enough for now.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Clara whispers.

For just a moment he believes her.


End file.
